American Gods (15 page)

Shadow thought about how one made the moon seem to come out
of the sky and become a silver dollar, and what made a woman get out of her
grave and walk across town to talk to you.

“Isn’t it a wonderful place?” asked Wednesday when he came
out of the men’s room. His hands were still wet, and he was drying them off on
a handkerchief. “They’re out of paper towels in there,” he said. He had changed
his clothes. He was now wearing a dark blue jacket, with matching trousers, a
blue knit tie, a thick blue sweater, a white shirt, and black shoes. He looked
like a security guard, and Shadow said so.

“What can I possibly say to that, young man,” said
Wednesday, picking up a box of floating plastic aquarium fish (“They’ll never
fade—and you’ll never have to feed them!.1”), “other than to congratulate you
on your perspicacity. How about Arthur Haddock? Arthur’s a good name.”

‘Too mundane.”

“Well, you’ll think of something. There. Let us return to
town. We should be in perfect time for our bank robbery, and then I shall have
a little spending money.”

“Most people,” said Shadow, “would simply take it from the
ATM.”

“Which is, oddly enough, more or less exactly what I was
planning to do.”

Wednesday parked the car in the supermarket lot across the
street from the bank. From the trunk of the car Wednesday brought out the metal
ease, a clipboard, and a pair of handcuffs. He handcuffed the case to his left
wrist. The snow continued to fall. Then he put a peaked blue cap on, and
Velcroed a patch to the breast pocket of his jacket. AI SECURITY was written on
the cap and the patch. He put the deposit slips on his clipboard. Then he
slouched. He looked like a retired beat cop, and appeared somehow to have
gained himself a paunch.

“Now,” he said, “you do a little shopping in the food store,
then hang out by the phone. If anyone asks, you’re waiting for a call from your
girlfriend, whose car has broken down.”

“So why’s she calling me there?”

“How the hell should you know?”

Wednesday put on a pair of faded pink earmuffs. He closed
the trunk. Snowflakes settled on his dark blue cap, and on his earmuffs.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Ludicrous,” said Shadow.

“Ludicrous?”

“Or goofy, maybe,” said Shadow.

“Mm. Goofy and ludicrous. That’s good “Wednesday smiled. The
earmuffs made him appear, at the same time, reassuring, amusing, and,
ultimately, lovable. He strode across the street and walked along the block to
the bank building, while Shadow walked into the supermarket hall and watched.

Wednesday taped a large red out-of-order notice to the ATM.
He put a red ribbon across the night deposit slot, and he taped a photocopied
sign up above it. Shadow read it with amusement.

FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE, it Said, WE ARE WORKING TO MAKE
ONGOING IMPROVEMENT’S. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE TEMPORARY INCONVENIENCE.

Then Wednesday turned around and faced the street. He looked
cold and put-upon. A young woman came over to use the ATM. Wednesday shook his
head, explained that it was out of order. She cursed, apologized for cursing,
and ran off.

A car drew up, and a man got out holding a small gray sack
and a key. Shadow watched as Wednesday apologized to the man, then made him
sign the clipboard, checked his deposit slip, painstakingly wrote nun out a
receipt and puzzled over which copy to keep, and, finally, opened his big black
metal case and put the man’s sack inside.

The man shivered hi the snow, stamping his feet, waiting for
the old security guard to be done with this administrative nonsense, so he
could leave his takings and get out of the cold and be on his way, then he took
his receipt and got back into his warm car and drove off.

Wednesday walked across the street carrying the metal case,
and bought himself a coffee at the supermarket.

“Afternoon, young man,” he said, with an avuncular chuckle,
as he passed Shadow. “Cold enough for you?”

He walked back across the street and took gray sacks and envelopes
from people coming to deposit their earnings or their takings on this Saturday
afternoon, a fine old security man in his funny pink earmuffs.

Shadow bought some things to read—Turkey Hunting, People,
and, because the cover picture of Bigfoot was so endearing, the Weekly World
News—and stared out of the window.

“Anything I can do to help?” asked a middle-aged black man
with a white mustache. He seemed to be the manager.

“Thanks, man, but no. I’m waiting for a phone call. My girlfriend’s
car broke down.”

“Probably the battery,” said the man. “People forget those
things only last three, maybe four years. It’s not like they cost a fortune.”

‘Tell me about it,” said Shadow.

“Hang in there, big guy,” said the manager, and he went back
into the supermarket. The snow had turned the street scene into the interior of
a snow globe, perfect in all its details.

Shadow watched, impressed. Unable to hear the conversations
across the street, he felt it was like watching a fine silent movie
performance, all pantomime and expression: the old security guard was gruff,
earnest—a little bumbling perhaps, but enormously well-meaning. Everyone who
gave him their money walked away a little happier from having met him.

And then the cops drew up outside the bank, and Shadow’s
heart sank. Wednesday tipped his cap to them, and ambled over to the police
car. He said his hellos and shook hands through the open window, and nodded,
then hunted through his pockets until he found a business card and a letter,
and passed them through the window of the car. Then he sipped his coffee.

The telephone rang. Shadow picked up the handpiece and did
his best to sound bored. “Al Security Services,” he said.

“Can I speak to A. Haddock?” asked the cop across the street..
!

“This is Andy Haddock speaking,” said Shadow.

“Yeah, Mister Haddock, this is the police,” said the cop in
the car across the street. “You’ve got a man at the First Illinois Bank on the
corner of Market and Second.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s right. Jimmy O’German. And what seems to
be the problem, officer? Jim behaving himself? He’s not been drinking?”

“No problem, sir. Your man is just fine, sir. Just wanted to
make certain everything was in order.”

“You tell Jim that if he’s caught drinking again, officer,
he’s fired. You got that? Out of a job. Out on his ass. We have zero tolerance
at Al Security.”

“I really don’t think it’s my place to tell him that, sir.
He’s doing a fine job. We’re just concerned because something like this really
ought to be done by two personnel. It’s risky, having one unarmed guard dealing
with such large amounts of money.”

“Tell me about it. Or more to the point, you tell those cheapskates
down at the First Illinois about it. These are my men I’m putting on the line,
officer. Good men. Men like you.” Shadow found himself warming to this
identity. He could feel himself becoming Andy Haddock, chewed cheap cigar in
his ashtray, a stack of paperwork to get to this Saturday afternoon, a home in
Schaumburg and a mistress in a little apartment on Lake Shore Drive. “Y’know,
you sound like a bright young man, officer, uh ...”

“Myerson.”

“Officer Myerson. You need a little weekend work, or you
wind up leaving the force, any reason, you give us a call. We always need good
men. You got my card?”

“Yes sir.”

“You hang onto it,” said Andy Haddock. “You call me.”

The police car drove off, and Wednesday shuffled back
through the snow to deal with the small line of people who were waiting to give
him their money.

“She okay?” asked the manager, putting his head around the
door. “Your girlfriend?”

“It was the battery,” said Shadow. “Now I just got to wait.”

“Women,” said the manager. “I hope yours is worth waiting
for.”

Winter darkness descended, the afternoon slowly graying into
night. Lights went on. More people gave Wednesday their money. Suddenly, as if
at some signal Shadow could not see, Wednesday walked over to the wall, removed
the out-of-order signs, and trudged across the slushy road, heading for the
parking lot. Shadow waited a minute, then followed him.

Wednesday was sitting in the back of the car. He had opened
the metal case, and was methodically laying everything he had been given out on
the backseat in neat piles.

“Drive,” he said. “We’re heading for the First Illinois Bank
over on State Street.”

“Repeat performance?” asked Shadow. “Isn’t that kind of pushing
your luck?”

“Not at all,” said Wednesday. “We’re going to do a little
banking.”

While Shadow drove, Wednesday sat in the backseat and removed
the bills from the deposit bags in handfuls, leaving the checks and the credit
card slips, and taking the cash from some, although not all, of the envelopes.
He dropped the cash back into the metal case. Shadow pulled up outside the
bank, stopping the car about fifty yards down the road, well out of camera
range. Wednesday got out of the car and pushed the envelopes through the night
deposit slot. Then he opened the night safe, and dropped in the gray bags. He
closed it again.

He climbed into the passenger seat. “You’re heading for
1-90,” said Wednesday. “Follow the signs west for Madison.”

Shadow began to drive.

Wednesday looked back at the bank they were leaving. “There,
my boy,” he said, cheerfully, “that will confuse everything. Now, to get the
really big money, you need to do that at about four-thirty on a Sunday moaning,
when the clubs and the bars drop off their Saturday night’s takings. Hit the
right bank, the right guy making the drop-off—they tend to pick them big and
honest, and sometimes have a couple of bouncers accompany them, but they aren’t
necessarily smart—and you can walk away with a quarter of a million dollars for
an evening’s work.”

“If it’s that easy,” said Shadow, “how come everybody doesn’t
do it?”

“It’s not an entirely risk-free occupation,” said Wednesday,
“especially not at four-thirty in the morning.”

“You mean the cops are more suspicious at four-thirty in the
morning?”

“Not at all. But the bouncers are. And things can get awkward.”

He flicked through a sheaf of fifties, added a smaller stack
of twenties, weighed them in his hand, then passed them over to Shadow. “Here,”
he said. “Your first week’s wages.”

Shadow pocketed the money without counting it. “So, that’s
what you do?” he asked. “To make money?”

“Rarely. Only when a great deal of cash is needed fast. On
the whole, I make my money from people who never know they’ve been taken, and
who never complain, and who will frequently line up to be taken when I come
back that way again.”

“That Sweeney guy said you were a hustler.”

“He was right. But that is the least of what I am. And the
least of what I need you for, Shadow.”

Snow spun through their headlights and into the windshield
as they drove through the darkness. The effect was almost hypnotic.

“This is the only country in the world,” said Wednesday,
into the stillness, “that worries about what it is.”

“What?”

“The rest of them know what they are. No one ever needs to
go searching for the heart of Norway. Or looks for the soul of Mozambique. They
know what they are.”

“And ... ?”

“Just thinking out loud.”

“So you’ve been to lots of other countries, then?”

Wednesday said nothing. Shadow glanced at him. “No,” said
Wednesday, with a sigh. “No. I never have.”

They stopped for gas, and Wednesday went into the rest room
in his security guard jacket and his suitcase, and came out in a crisp, pale
suit, brown shoes, and a knee-length brown coat that looked like it might be
Italian.

“So when we get to Madison, what then?”

‘Take Highway Fourteen west to Spring Green. We’ll be meeting
everyone at a place called the House on the Rock. You been there?”

“No,” said Shadow. “But I’ve seen the signs.”

The signs for the House on the Rock were all around that
part of the world: oblique, ambiguous signs all across Illinois and Minnesota
and Wisconsin, probably as far away as Iowa, Shadow suspected, signs alerting
you to the existence of the House on the Rock. Shadow had seen the signs, and
wondered about them. Did the House balance perilously upon the Rock? What was
so interesting about the Rock? About the House? He had given it a passing
thought, but then forgotten it. Shadow was not in the habit of visiting
roadside attractions.

They left the interstate at Madison, and drove past the dome
of the capitol building, another perfect snow-globe scene in the falling snow,
and then they were off the interstate and driving down country roads. After
almost an hour of driving through towns with names like Black Earth, they
turned down a narrow driveway, past several enormous, snow-dusted flower pots
entwined with fizardlike dragons. The tree-lined parking lot was almost emphr.

“They’ll be closing soon,” said Wednesday.

“So what is this place?” asked Shadow, as they walked
through the parking lot toward a low, unimpressive wooden building.

“This is a roadside attraction,” said Wednesday. “One of the
finest. Which means it is a place of power.”

“Come again?”

“It’s perfectly simple,” said Wednesday. “In other
countries, over the years, people recognized the places of power. Sometimes it
would be a natural formation, sometimes it would just be a place that was,
somehow, special. They knew that something important was happening there, that
there was some focusing point, some channel, some window to the Immanent. And
so they would build temples or cathedrals, or erect stone circles, or ... well,
you get the idea.”

“There are churches all across the States, though,” said
Shadow.

“In every town. Sometimes on every block. And about as significant,
in this context, as dentists’ offices. No, in the USA, people still get the
call, or some of them, and they feel themselves being called to from the
transcendent void, and they respond to it by building a model out of beer
bottles of somewhere they’ve never visited, or by erecting a gigantic bat house
in some part of the country that bats have traditionally declined to visit.
Roadside attractions: people feel themselves being pulled to places where, in
other parts of the world, they would recognize that part of themselves that is
truly transcendent, and buy a hot dog and walk around, feeling satisfied on a
level they cannot truly describe, and profoundly dissatisfied on a level
beneath that.”